Beware the Bottled Thoughts
by Tarie
Summary: Harry tries to isolate himself and Ron won't let him. (Harry/Ron)


_Beware the bottled thoughts of angry young men_  
_Secret compartments hide all of the skeletons_  
- 'Nightmares By the Sea'  
Jeff Buckley

Every night, he would lie awake long after the others had drifted off to sleep, staring hard at the canopy over his four-poster, just waiting.

He never waited for sleep to come to him.

Ron never had a problem sleeping. If you asked his mum, she would tell you that he could sleep anywhere, anytime. On the settee, on the floor, at the breakfast table, outside in the grass. Anywhere. Anytime. After food and Harry, sleep was his most favourite thing in the world.

It was because of Harry that he spent every night awake for long hours, straining his ears to hear every single sound in the dormitory just in case there was That Sound and he was needed.

Sometimes That Sound was a garbled mumble. Other times it was whimper. Still others it was laboured, heavy breathing. On rare occasions, it was the rustling of sheets and duvet and creaking of springs.

As soon as he heard one of these noises, he would jump up and go to Harry's bedside. Those sounds meant he was dreaming again, having nightmares that he refused to talk to Ron or anyone else about anymore. Ron and Hermione had asked him about it once but Harry just gave them a hard look, saying that he was working on Occlumency his own way, things were _fine_, and to stop bothering him about it. Hermione worried that Voldemort was trying to plant ideas inside Harry's mind again but Ron wasn't so sure the dreams could be tossed up to just that. Even though Harry hadn't said anything about it to him, Ron knew that Sirius' death had hit him very hard.

When he reached Harry's bed, Ron would sit on the edge of the mattress and just _watch_ him. He wasn't sure how, but even through the haze of sleep Harry always seemed to sense that he was there. It would only take a few moments of Ron sitting there beside him, his thigh lightly touching Harry's shoulder, before Harry would stop That Sound. That Sound would fade into soft snoring and grinding teeth and Harry would curl on his side, without fail, bringing one hand up close to his chest, the backs of his knuckles resting against Ron's thigh. Ron would inhale deeply and exhale slowly, waiting until Harry would switch to his other side before taking his leave. Sometimes it would be only a few minutes before he rolled back over and sometimes it would be an hour. Ron never minded the wait. The most important thing to him was to make sure that Harry wasn't going to lapse back into that awful dream, whatever it was.

* * *

Like he did night after night, after the other boys nodded off, Ron lay awake, eyeing his canopy and waiting for Harry to make That Sound.

He waited and waited and waited.

And then he worried.

Harry wasn't making That Sound nor was he softly snoring and grinding his teeth. So if he wasn't making any of those sounds, what did that mean? Ron knew what That Sound meant and he knew what soft snores and grinding teeth meant, but he didn't have a sodding clue as to what silence meant.

Something was wrong.

Worrying his lower lip, he kicked the duvet off and hit the floor, padding over to Harry's four-poster as quickly as possible. Sucking in a breath, he lowered himself down to the mattress and studied his best mate's face with concern. Laying a hand palm-flat on the bed, Ron leaned in a little bit to get a better look at him.

And that was when Harry opened his eyes.

Ron coughed and jerked upright, surprised. "Er...hi," he whispered, positive his ears were red. How bloody embarrassing was it to get caught sitting in a person's bed watching them sleep?

Harry didn't seemed surprised at all to see him there. "Go back to bed, Ron," he said flatly. Then he turned over and yanked the duvet up over his head.

Ron's mouth gaped open for a minute and then he had sense enough to close it. "Okay," he said quietly, standing up and mechanically shuffling back over to his bed.

Just before he reached it, he turned round to look at the lump on Harry's bed. There was a bad taste in his mouth and he tried to swallow his pride, which was difficult considering his best mate had just used a tone he normally reserved for Slytherins on him and tossed duvets up over his head to shut him out. "Harry?"

There was a grunt in reply and the duvet jerked a little.

Ron wanted to ask him what was wrong. He wanted to ask him to tell him about the dreams. He wanted he wanted he wanted he _wanted_.

But in the end, all he could say was "'Night" before crawling back into his own bed, drawing the curtains around him and burying his face in his hands.

He wasn't sure how or exactly why, but Ron knew he had mucked up but good.

* * *

The next night, That Sound, this time a whimper, sounded. As soon as he heard it, Ron wanted to go to Harry.

But he couldn't move. He was frozen in his spot. What if Harry told him to go to back to bed again? Maybe he should just wait.

Yes, Ron waited.

Ron waited, but he couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand not being there beside Harry, not knowing if he was all right or not. He promised himself that if Harry made That Sound for a second time, he would go to him.

That Sound never sounded for a second time.

* * *

The following night, That Sound never came.

Silence again.

There was a heavy feeling in Ron's stomach and his heart beat irregularly in his chest.

What was going on? How was Harry doing? Was he all right? Or had something happened to him?

These questions and a myriad more swirled in his mind and he couldn't take it. The curiosity of what was or wasn't wrong with Harry was too strong to ignore. Now, Ron didn't want to get rejected like he had been the other night, so he would have to go about checking on Harry in a roundabout way, one that wouldn't impede on Harry and his sleep and get Ron told to go back to his own bed.

Feigning a coughing fit, Ron sat up in his bed, twisting and reaching for his wand on the bedside table.

Oops.

His fingers brushed against the hilt and then he deliberately pushed his hand forward, sending the wand rolling toward the edge of the table and right on the floor.

Sliding out of bed, Ron knelt down and picked up the wand, muttering _Lumos_ and wincing as the tip of his wand lit up. He always hated that first burst of light in the darkness.

Straightening, he casually turned toward Harry's bed, intending then to shuffle down to the loo for a glass of water he didn't really need.

The light from his wand shone on Harry's bed.

It was empty.

Ron dropped his wand in surprise.

* * *

That morning at breakfast, Harry looked dead tired. He didn't mention anything as to where he'd been the previous night and Ron didn't ask him. He'd just pass Harry the kippers or toast or marmy when asked, sneaking a sidelong glance here and there at his profile, trying to work things out.

He had no idea where Harry had been and he knew that Harry wouldn't tell him. That was fine, Ron told himself. A bloke had to have his secrets, right?

But Harry wasn't just any bloke. If he had secrets, they were the serious kind. The kind that ought not really be secret at all.

* * *

After a week of Harry not sleeping in his bed, Ron finally decided to tell Hermione what was going on.

She was concerned, of course, and gave Ron at least fifteen different bits of advice, complete with quotes from _Hogwarts, A History_, Professor McGonagall's office hours ("And you know, Ron, that you can really actually talk to her any time, day or night, when it's about something like this with Harry. She'll know what to do; you ought to talk to her."), and a few tuts. Hermione even ended her litany of advice by giving him a smart little blank book and a Self-Inking Quill so he could "write down observations on Harry's sleeping patterns."

He had been too tired to point out that Harry hadn't _been_ sleeping in his bed for several days. And for another thing, he wasn't sure he wanted to share everything about how Harry behaved when asleep while Ron had been around him. It seemed private somehow. He wanted to keep that stuff to himself.

* * *

When Harry started falling asleep in classes, Ron knew that this - whatever _this_ was - had to stop. He hadn't slept in his bed for nearly a month now and he always showed up at breakfast looking like complete and utter shite.

After a particularly gruelling Defence Against the Dark Arts class practical, Ron decided to take matters into his own hand. If Harry wasn't going to bring up whatever was bothering him and why he was slipping out of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory every night to do only God knew what, Ron was going to have to bring it up first. There was no other way around it. Grabbing Harry by the elbow, he dragged his best mate out of sight behind a statue of Eargit the Ugly.

Once they were safely obscured from any passers-by, Ron removed his hand from Harry's arm and gave him an expectant look. "Well?"

"Well what, Ron?" said Harry, giving him a quizzical look in return.

"You know!"

"Er, know what?" Harry pressed his back against the wall and shoved his glasses back up his nose.

Ron stared at him in stunned silence for a long moment.

"Uh- um- er," Ron stammered, stalling for time. How the sodding hell could Harry just stand there and act like he didn't know what was going on or what Ron would want to talk to him about?

The bell rang and Harry shoved off the wall, starting past him. "C'mon. We're going to be late for Charms."

"No!"

Harry stopped and turned round toward him, grinning slightly. "Yeah, I don't feel like going to Charms either, but we've that exam coming up and Hermione'll kill us if we're late."

Ron shook his head. "No. It's not that."

The grin faded. "What is it, then?"

"Harry," said Ron in credulously. "D'you really think I'd drag you all the way over here by this ugly git just to waste time and skive off Charms?"

"No," said Harry slowly.

"Aren't you going to tell me why?" said Ron, desperation creeping into his voice.

Harry started to speak and Ron held up a hand. "And don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, cos you _do_. Where've you been going at night? Why aren't you staying in the dorm?"

Behind the specs, Harry's eyes narrowed considerably. "You might not care about Hermione getting on your back about Charms, but I do. See you in class." He turned on his heel and Ron reached out for him, fingers tugging on the sleeve of Harry's robe.

"_Harry_."

Harry shook his arm almost violently and the fabric slipped from Ron's fingers. He was too shocked to call after Harry to wait up for him.

Ron didn't make it to Charms that day. He spent those fifty minutes leaned up against Eargit the Ugly replaying the conversation and trying to figure out why it felt like someone had reached right in his chest and squeezed his heart til it nearly shattered.

* * *

Two months had passed since that the incident behind the statue of Eargit the Ugly.

Harry still didn't sleep in the dorm at night and Ron hadn't breathed a word of it to Hermione. She'd asked him weeks ago if Harry was doing any better and Ron had told her yes. It was easier to lie to protect Harry than it was to tell the truth. If he told her the truth and word got back to Harry that Ron had been talking about him to her again, Harry might pull even further away.

Things seemed to be fine between them but, underneath it all, something was terribly off. Oh, they still flew their brooms together and practised defence spells together and all, but there was this feeling, this _charge_, in the air around them. When they paused from laughing to catch their breath or silently walk back to the castle from the Quidditch pitch, their shoulders brushing against each other, Ron would swallow and take a peek at Harry. When he'd do that, there was this scary-but-scary-in-a-good-way spiralling feeling in his stomach, much better than the rush he got from doing that wicked dive the way Harry had taught him and a thousand times more intense and brilliant he felt when he blocked a really difficult shot. It was like how he imagined he'd feel if he'd gotten everything he ever wanted all at once - overwhelmed and happy and content and safe. And it was all because of Harry and it felt incredible. He didn't know why it did and he really didn't understand why feeling that way seemed not right, off. If he would have been asked to explain it, Ron doubted he would have been able to manage it. How could something be so fucking fantastic and seem all pear-shaped at once?

Maybe the pear-shaped part was because he was just so damned _worried_ about Harry.

It was time, once and for all, to put an end to this ruddy mystery. Somehow or another, Ron knew that he had to find out just what was going on with Harry, no matter what might happen.

* * *

Crouched over Harry's trunk at half-three in the morning (and doing his best to be damned quiet), Ron didn't know why he didn't think of it before. He dug around in the darkness for what he'd been looking for. Once he had it, he straightened, closed the lid on Harry's trunk, and crept quietly out in the corridor.

Stooping down, he lay the Marauder's Map on the stone floor and tapped it once, whispering, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." By the time he'd lit his wand, thin ink lines had already begun to spread throughout the parchment. Ron waited impatiently until everything bloomed up and took shape on the map, then began scouring each page for sign of Harry. Flipping the map open, his eyes pored over every last inch, not seeing him. Ron was about to give up (before panicking and figuring out a way to get to Hermione in the girls' dormitory) when he spied a lone figure far out on the grounds, the little footprints representing him or her pacing back and forth in an area labelled "cemetery."

Folding up the map, he mumbled "Mischief managed," shoved it in the pocket of his cloak, and tore down the stairs.

Harry was in the cemetery. Whatever for, Ron couldn't imagine. He'd never been out there himself; he figured that old professors or something were buried out there.

Why in Merlin's beard would Harry be out there in the middle of the bleeding night?

* * *

When Ron found him, Harry was sitting on the ground staring at a headstone so old that the name was unreadable.

Ron stopped a few feet behind him and bowed his head, wanting to give Harry some privacy. For whatever reason, Harry chose to come out here and pay his respects to someone. The least he could do was not disturb him and give him a little space.

"Ron?" Harry asked after a long while.

Ron's head snapped up; he hadn't been sure Harry had even realised that he had company. "Yeah?" he asked hoarsely, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"It's a-"

"Don't tell me to go back to bed," Ron cut him off, moving to stand in front of him. "Because I won't, you hear?"

He half-expected Harry to tell him to do it anyway or to yell or something.

He didn't expect Harry to sit up on his knees and tug on the hem of Ron's cloak, urging him to sit beside him.

Expected or not, Ron wasn't going to refuse Harry's request. Nodding, he sank to his knees, tucking them under his bum and turning in to face Harry.

"I hear," said Harry finally, eyes moving over Ron's face and then shifting back to the headstone.

"Is this where you've been going every night?"

Moonlight streamed across Harry's face and Ron was struck right then and there how old Harry looked and how old they both were. They might have been sixteen years old, but their souls were much older than that. Their souls were old and connected and, despite everything that happened, Ron wouldn't have had it any other way. Facing as much danger and death as they had together had made their lives forever intertwined in a way that could not be matched or understood by those who had not experienced such things. Harry was old and world-weary and Ron didn't blame him one ruddy bit.

Suddenly he felt very foolish and selfish for following Harry out to the cemetery. He should have just let him be.

"Yeah," said Harry after a lengthy pause. "It is."

Or maybe he shouldn't just let him be.

Harry turned toward him then and placed his hands on the ground, pushing himself up. Brushing dirt and grass off the back of his cloak, he looked at Ron and jerked his chin in the direction of the covered bridge that spanned the creek to the south of the cemetery.

Ron climbed to his feet, understanding at once.

* * *

The railing was old and rickety, the wood rotting in some places. That didn't stop Harry from leaning his elbows on it and cupping his hands in his face, staring out at the horizon. After a momement's hesitation, Ron followed suit, gasping a little when the railing swayed slightly from his added weight.

Harry snorted and kicked the side of his foot. "It's safe," he said.

Ron's brow furrowed; safe or not, he didn't care too much for the creaks and groans that the bridge seemed to make when a gust of wind blew through.

"You don't feel safe, though," said Ron when the wind died down. "In your own room, I mean."

"It's not that-" Harry started, then broke off and backed away from the rail. "I just-"

Ron turned around to take a good look at him. "You just what, Harry? I'm not a mind-reader, okay? So just tell me."

Harry frowned and Ron mentally cursed himself. If he didn't watch it, Harry was going to leave him by himself on this bridge and he'd be even worse off than he was now.

Whatever it was that Harry finally said, Ron couldn't make it out. All he saw were Harry's lips moving.

"What?" he asked, taking a step toward him. "What was that?"

Harry averted his eyes. "I can't tell you."

"Yes you can, Harry," said Ron quickly. "You can tell me any bloody thing, you know that!"

"I can't. Not this," Harry said. Ron had never heard him sound so miserable.

"What's the matter?"

"Don't, Ron. Just don't."

Ron stared at Harry, slack-jawed. How could he possibly expect Ron to stop now? For weeks on end, this _thing_ had been going on and he was so very close to getting the answers he needed, answers he _wanted_ to get so he could help Harry.

And there it was again. That charge.

It hung in the air between them, all around them. It crackled and Ron could ignore it no more than he could ignore his own need to breathe. It was there and it was brilliant and frightening and by _God_ he was going to make sure Harry didn't shut him out anymore one way or another.

"Harry?" Ron said hoarsely, reaching a hand up to push Harry's glasses back in place.

"Yeah?" said Harry in a low voice, standing very still.

"Don't keep your thoughts all bottled up, mate. Don't hide whatever it is - what do Muggles say? Skeletons? - don't hide them or it, okay? Cos it's not good for you. And whatever it is that's eating away at you, it's eating away at me, too. D'you understand? You and me, we're- we're mates, more than mates, really, and we ought to be there for each other. It's not really fair how this works, cos you're always there for me but you don't let me be there for _you_ and I want to be. I should be. So let me, Harry. Let me be there for you." Ron swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair as he stared down at Harry, unsure and scared suddenly.

"I'm tired, Ron," said Harry, his face screwing up in a way that just tore Ron up inside. "I'm tired and I don't want to do this. I want to just- I want- I want-"

"What d'you want? I'll help if I can," said Ron quickly. _Oh please, let me help. I just want you to be happy. I want you to be all right. I want you to have what you want and I'll do whatever it takes to give it to you, mate._

"I want-"

"_What_?"

"Don't," mumbled Harry. "Don't make me say it, because it'll make everything worse than it already is."

"I won't make you say it," Ron promised. "Just...can...Just bloody well look up at me so I can see in your face you're going to be all right."

At that moment, Harry looked up and their eyes locked.

Everything fell into place then.

The charge in the air crackled and broke and Ron felt his heart explode into a million pieces.

It all made sense now.

Well, most of it, anyway. The things that didn't make sense, he would ask Harry about them tomorrow.

But for now-

Ron crossed to him, blood pounding in his ears and a mad cacophony screaming a thousand different directions at once in his mind.

Harry wasn't going to shut him off ever again. He'd see.

He'd see that Ron wasn't scared.

Ron wasn't scared of what dangers lie ahead for them.

Ron wasn't scared of what dangers lie ahead for them any more than he was scared by the fact that Ron wasn't scared that Harry cared deeply for him.

After all, he cared deeply for Harry, too.

As his mouth met Harry's for the first time, Ron tried to communicate as much as he could in that one kiss - he would always be there for Harry, no matter what. In good times and bad, Ron would be there for him. If Voldemort was trying to poison Harry against his friends or to convince him to do things, Ron would be there to make sure Harry knew what was true and what was false. And above all else, Ron would be there for him always, even in death, if that happened. He wouldn't leave Harry like his parents had or Sirius had. Ron and Harry were old souls bound by experience and honour and friendship and love and no amount of bottled up fear or skeletons or danger could change that.

And when Harry kissed back, Ron knew Harry finally realised that very thing.


End file.
